


coldest with the kiss

by blackkat



Series: Padme/Fox drabbles [1]
Category: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Huddling For Warmth, On the Run, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:34:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26461246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: “Should be safe enough here,” Fox says, and shoves the door shut as best he can, though there's still a gap. Given the state of the whole hut, though, the fact that it has a door is already an unexpected luxury, and Fox isn't about to complain.“Safe from animals, or safe from the Separatists?” Padmé asks, a little dry, but she holsters her blaster and moves away from the door, closing what shutters are left on the windows.
Relationships: Padmé Amidala/CC-1010 | Fox
Series: Padme/Fox drabbles [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1941685
Comments: 27
Kudos: 492
Collections: Commander Fox





	coldest with the kiss

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt: about Fox/Padme where something happens where they somehow get stuck on a freezing planet and have to huddle for warmth while waiting for rescue and having to keep an eye out for dangerous wild life/separatist agents?

“Should be safe enough here,” Fox says, and shoves the door shut as best he can, though there's still a gap. Given the state of the whole hut, though, the fact that it _has_ a door is already an unexpected luxury, and Fox isn't about to complain.

“Safe from animals, or safe from the Separatists?” Padmé asks, a little dry, but she holsters her blaster and moves away from the door, closing what shutters are left on the windows. They're some kind of wood, like the rest of the building, and some are frozen stiff, but it’s noticeably warmer than being outside, at least.

“Animals,” Fox says. “Keep your blaster handy, Senator.” He glances at her, letting his eyes drag over the line of her back, the heavy knot of her hair, before he forces himself to look away again. It’s inappropriate. Even when they're not on the run on an ice planet, being chased by the wildlife and the Separatists who lured the Senator here, Fox doesn’t have any right to look.

Padmé Amidala was a queen. Fox is just a clone, and nothing will change that.

“Always, Commander,” Padmé says, and at least the curve of her smile is amused even if it’s rueful. She seals the last window, then turns, looking around, and tips her head. “No heating, I'm guessing.”

And she’s wet from her fall through the ice, even if Fox managed to catch her before more than one leg went through. “It shouldn’t get much colder,” Fox offers, pulling his helmet off and setting it on the floor at his feet. The single room that’s still accessible is small, lit by a single skylight above them and a strip of solar lights over the door, and his HUD is overkill in this situation. “We’re past the coldest part of the night.”

Padmé curls her arms around herself. “Easy for you to say,” she counters, though it sounds like good humor rather than annoyance. “You have working thermals.”

Shock jars through Fox’s veins, and he pulls up short. “Senator?” he asks, alarmed. “Your thermals aren’t _working_?”

Padmé shakes her head, crossing to the back wall, where a door is half-crushed by a tumble of rocks and snow. Her breath clouds in the air as she crouches down, tracing a set of marks. “The people shooting at us were more pressing,” she says. “I'm all right.”

“For now,” Fox says warily, and wonders how much he can press. He’s in charge of her safety, but she’s a senator, is technically in charge of this mission, even if it’s now a failure. “If we don’t get you warmed up—”

“I'm fine, Commander.” Padmé sounds amused more than anything as she feels out the edges of the cracks in the floor. “Look at this, I think it’s a trapdoor.”

Raising a brow, Fox crosses the room to join her as she looks for a catch. He can feel the faint indent of the hinges, and as he slides his hands around, Padmé digs her fingers into a set of markings on the next tile and there's a loud click. The tile lifts, and she makes a sound of victory, giving Fox a satisfied smile that makes something in his stomach clench.

“Willing to risk it, Commander?” she asks.

Fox snorts, one corner of his mouth pulling up against his will. “If you are, Senator,” he says. “With the mineral composition of the planet blocking scans, we should be safe from the Seps for at least a few days.”

“I’ll take it,” Padmé says, and before Fox can make any move to go first, she pulls out her light and her blaster and swings her feet through the hole, dropping through. Fox jerks as alarm snaps through him, and he grabs his helmet and lunges to follow her, though it’s a much tighter fit for a man in full armor than it is for a slim woman in a sleek coat.

When he hits the ground, though, there's a hand under his arm, steadying him, and a figure right next to him. Padmé’s breath clouds the air, and Fox can see that she’s shivering a little now that they're no longer running, body tense with cold. It makes something kick in his chest, concern and dismay in equal parts, because his own thermals are keeping him going, but he can feel the deeper chill of the air down here.

“Senator,” he says, and turns his hand, gripping her arm in return. “Your clothes are wet—”

Padmé raises a brow at him, the tip of her mouth rueful. “My wardrobe is back on the ship, Commander. There's no helping it.”

Most senators would have broken down about the time their ship was shot out of the air. Padmé hasn’t even wavered. Fox hadn’t thought any politician could ever rouse more than tired contempt in him at this point, but—watching her navigate near-capture and their escape from the Sep-controlled territory to the north has been impressive. Fox has had _vode_ who have been more of a burden than Senator Amidala has on this mission.

He’s always thought she was pretty, the way a picture was pretty. Something nice to look at, something aesthetically pleasing that passed through his line of sight every day, but—

Well. She’s a hell of a shot, too. Fox appreciates that more than he probably should.

“All right,” he allows, mostly displeased with the state of things, even if they’ve managed to find shelter. Casting a glance up, he judges the height of the trapdoor, and then asks, “Think you can close the hatch if I lift you?”

Padmé looks up as well, then nods determinedly. “Just don’t drop me,” she says, and gets a hand on his shoulder. Fox offers his own hands in a cup, fingers laced, and without hesitation Padmé puts her boot there, then jumps. Fox gives her lift, propelling her up until she can get her other foot on his shoulder and catch the edges of the trapdoor, then wraps his hands around her ankles and holds her steady.

“We should be able to open it again, as long as you don’t mind lifting me,” Padmé says, and shifts a little, pulling the hatch back down. She ducks as it shuts, and Fox reaches up blindly, offering her his hand. She takes, and Fox gets an arm beneath her thighs, lifts her as best he can, and eases her down.

She’s light. She’s light and she hooks an arm around his neck and leans in as her feet hit the ground, and Fox isn't so tall that he has to do more than stoop a little to set her on her feet. He wants to linger just a little, to appreciate the warmth of her, or the softness of her body against him, but—

“You're shaking,” he says, concerned, and straightens, leaving his hand on her hips. The tremors from the cold are all too obvious, and he turns, looking around the room they're in for any sort of heater. There isn't any that he can see; it’s an empty, open area, with nothing but a bare lightstrip above them, a pile of cloth pushed up against one wall and a furry skin from one of the native animals hanging on the wall.

Padmé makes a quiet sound of amusement, pulling away from him. “That’s because it’s cold, Commander Fox,” she says, and Fox rolls his eyes, but follows as she crosses to the pile of cloth. When she crouches down to pull it away from the wall, he catches one edge, and together they unfold a single thick blanket, full of down.

“Well,” Padmé says after a moment. “It’s not quite what I was hoping for.”

Fox snorts. “Not quite a survival shelter,” he agrees, and Padmé’s smile flickers into being. It’s a little tired, but warm, and something in Fox’s chest turns over.

“Not exactly,” she says, and then, running her fingers over the blanket, offers, “It’s big enough to share. Your thermals won't keep you warm enough in these temperatures, so you’ll need cover, too.” When Fox rocks back on his heels, frowning in consideration, she raises one brow at him, and asks, “Ideas, Commander?”

Fox hesitates. He knows senators. He might not know _this_ senator well, but he knows the type. And he knows propriety, his own place, how he should act—he should probably strip off his thermals, offer them to Padmé, and remove himself from the bunker to guard it from the outside, regardless of the cold. But—

Fox has a duty to the whole Guard, more than any one senator. It’s a reason he rarely takes escort missions; his priorities aren’t the same as any other clone, and they never have been. Fox doesn’t think of himself as special, doesn’t think he’s better than Cody or Bly or any of the others, but he knows precisely who he is. Who he _has_ to be, to keep the Republic safe.

“We can bed down on the fur, pull the blanket over ourselves,” he says. “I’ll strip down to my thermals and that should keep us warm enough to last until the Seps pass us.”

He isn't quite sure what he expects from Padmé. Blushing, maybe, or indignation, or protests at the very least. Maidenly horror, at the worst. But instead, she takes the suggestion with perfect equanimity, hardly even blinking, and reaches for the zipper on her wet jacket.

“All right,” she says. “Are you sure you don’t want to leave your armor on?”

Good sense, Fox thinks with a breath of relief, isn't a trait he’ll ever take for granted in a politician again. “Won't be warm enough,” he says briskly. “The heat stays in the armor. As long as you're all right sharing with a man in a skintight undersuit, Senator.”

That actually makes Padmé laugh, and she rises to her feet, dropping her jacket to the side and grabbing the fur. “There are worse things, Commander. As long as you don’t mind sharing with a politician.”

Fox snorts, stripping his armor off with practiced speed. It’s _cold_ without the plastoid’s protection, biting enough to make him wince, and it’s more than enough to give him an even greater appreciation of Padmé’s resilience, walking through the snow for hours before they found this place. He turns his thermals all the way up, then helps Padmé spread out the fur and the blanket. Padmé’s fingers are stiff as she pulls is over herself, and Fox hesitates, taking in the size of the blanket, and then says, “Shift forward, Senator.”

Padmé gives him a veiled look, but does so, and Fox slides in behind her as brusquely as he can, putting his back to the wall and tugging her back against him. The little gasp she gives as she presses back into his warmth is enough to make his mind spin in directions it shouldn’t, but Fox grits his teeth and wraps his arms around her, wrapping her hands in his own.

“Sorry to presume, Senator,” he says, as flat as he can make it.

“Don’t be,” Padmé manages, pressing a little more tightly into his chest. Obligingly, Fox curls over her as best he can, trying to give her that bit of extra warmth, and ignores the silk of her hair against his cheek, the way she fits into his arms. “I appreciate it, Commander.”

“Call me Fox,” he says, a little wry. “I think running for our lives together gives you the right.”

There's a pause, and after a moment Padmé’s hands shift, curl around Fox’s fingers and squeeze. “I've been told what names mean to clones,” she says quietly. “I wasn’t sure I had the right.”

Most people don’t care, Fox thinks, closing his eyes. Most politicians, especially, never put enough thought into it to even _consider_ caring.

“It’s fine,” he says roughly. “I don’t mind.”

“Fox, then.” She rubs her thumb over his knuckles, one quick brush that lights up nerve endings Fox didn’t even know he had, and then says, “And call me Padmé. Please.”

Names mean everything to clones. Being given permission to use hers is…startling. Fox tips his head just a little, letting his cheek touch her hair again, and says quietly, “Thank you.”

Padmé’s sound of amusement is low, soft. “You saved my life when the shuttle went down, Fox. And on the tundra.”

Fox snorts. “Given what a good shot you are, I think it was mutual life-saving. Pretty impressive for a senator.”

“I won't be helpless,” Padmé says, and there's a current of steel to it. “Even here.” Her fingers tighten a little more around Fox’s, and she glances back and up at him, meeting his eyes. “Thank you for not treating me like I need to be taken care of.”

“I treat you like you deserve,” Fox says, which is…probably too blunt. He’s always been bad at keeping his mouth shut, though. “If you were helpless, I would have accounted for that. But I've traveled with shinies who were less useful, so like hell I was going to treat you like glass.”

Padmé laughs, just a little, and settles into the curve of his body. Her smile is a little rueful, slightly bittersweet. “I forgot what it was like,” she says quietly. “Thank you for reminding me.”

Fox dares to wrap his hands a little tighter around hers, enveloping them. “Believe me, the pleasure was mine,” he says. “You're a hell of a shot.”

“I helped take my planet back from the Trade Federation when I was fourteen,” Padmé says, and that edge of steel rises again. “This war is larger, but I'm used to fighting, Fox.”

Something they have in common, Fox thinks, and closes his eyes, breathing out slowly. “The fighting will end, someday,” he says.

Padmé tips her head, resting her temple against his cheek. “When it does,” she says, “I’ll be the first to welcome it. But until then, I’ll carry a blaster and rely on you.”

Fox’s heart feels too fast, a little unsteady. “Anything you need, Padmé,” he says, and he shouldn’t, he’s just a clone, but—

Her fingers slot though his, grip tight. “Thank you, Fox,” she murmurs, and Fox has to close his eyes again, face a little hot, chest tight. He almost thinks he can feel Padmé’s heartbeat, just a little too fast for composure, beating steady and swift between them.


End file.
